THE STORY CONTINUES... After those two idyllic days in Saint-Tropez, reality gradually and almost gently reasserted itself. On the deck of the Sirius, as the sun set one last time over the sea, Charlotte and I huddled together, wrapped in a cashmere blanket. Alexandre watched us with a kind smile, aware that something important was at stake. "We're abandoning the project," Charlotte whispered against my shoulder. "I don't want to work with Marc anymore. Or with that world. It's too risky... and I don't want to mix business with... that anymore." I nodded. I didn't want to anymore either. The memories of the night in the parking lot, the necklaces, the discharges, the public humiliations were still too vivid. Magnificent in the moment, but dangerous for our lives. The next morning, from the suite on the Byblos, Charlotte made the calls. Her voice was firm, professional, the voice of the boss I'd always known: "Gérard, I'm sorry, but after careful consideration, we're abandoning the naval project. The technical and regulatory constraints are too far removed from our core business. We prefer to refocus on what we do best: luxury packaging and cosmetics. Of course, we'll cover the expenses incurred so far. " Gérard tried to change her mind, but Charlotte remained inflexible. Marc received an even more curt message: "Project canceled. Do not contact us again, either professionally or personally. Any attempt to revive the project will be considered harassment." She blocked his number. End of story. We returned to Avignon two days later. Charlotte took the reins of the agency with renewed energy. She reorganized the teams, launched two new calls for tenders for perfume brands she had long coveted, and implemented a stricter internal charter for client relations. In the corridors, she had reverted to the charismatic and demanding Charlotte everyone knew. Alone with me, in her office with the blinds drawn or in the small suite she had reserved for the agency for "night shifts," she became my tender and possessive Mistress once more. The collars were gone, but not the bond. We met regularly, sometimes just for a soft, sensual embrace, sometimes for more intense games where she reminded me who was really in charge when we were alone. For me, returning to Théo was more difficult.I stopped by Hélène's one last time. She helped me come down gently: wig removed, eyebrows slightly reshaped but presentable ("you can say you tried a new beauty treatment"). The full body waxing was harder to justify. I opted for a believable version: a lost bet with a colleague during a rather boozy team-building event ("we bet I'd never dare get a full wax like the pro cyclists"). Since I cycle regularly, it was plausible. My wife also knows my penchant for feminine clothing; she accepted it (as long as it remained discreet and outside the house), but she wasn't ready to do just anything. When I walked through the door, suitcase in hand, she greeted me with a mixture of relief and suspicion. "My God, Théo… what have you done?" I put down my suitcase and kissed her tenderly. "It's a long story." The project in Toulon was… unusual. I gave her a heavily embellished version: an eccentric client, a slightly wild evening where everyone had taken on sartorial and aesthetic challenges to “unwind.” Charlotte had played along to light ...

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